


Beautiful Stranger

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate version of A Study in Pink, Doctor!John, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Meeting, Fluff, Getting Together, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Objectively speaking, John Hamish Watson, M.D., aged 35, had no reasons to feel unhappy. He wasn't a limping soldier invalided from Afghanistan; he was an accomplished and wealthy surgeon, working in a prestigious clinic right in the centre of London. And yet he couldn't help but feel utterly and completely bored. Will a chance encounter with a strange man in a dark coat change his life? Obviously.</p>
<p>The alternate version of John's and Sherlock's first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [ thatsaralacey](http://thatsaralacey.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text. Go and follow her, she's the best!
> 
> This story is my giveaway prize for [donutmaniac](http://donutmaniac.tumblr.com/). She asked for an alternate meeting between John and Sherlock, where John is not a soldier, but just a doctor, and the two of them fall in love. I'm sorry you had to wait so long. I hope you'll like it!

Objectively speaking, John Hamish Watson, M.D., aged 35, had no reasons to feel unhappy. He was an accomplished and wealthy surgeon, working in a prestigious clinic right in the centre of London. Being a reasonably attractive charmer with his short but pleasantly shaped figure, neatly cut sandy hair, and bright blue eyes always filled with boyish sparks, John infallibly found himself in women's graces. True, he was still a bachelor without a long-term partner, but whenever he started worrying about that, some pretty girl entered his life for a nice one-night stand to chase all the concerns away. He didn't consider himself the domestic type, anyway. Wife, kids, and a white picket fence? No, thank you; that sounded more like the beginning of a horror story than a life he'd ever liked to lead. 

In short, John was strong, well-off and handsome - a perfect combination, it seemed. Surely a lot of people could be jealous of all that he'd accomplished. And yet, as he was strolling down the busy London street back to his flat from an uneventful shift at the hospital, he felt in his guts the gnawing claws of boredom; boredom that had been growing within him for many years, agonizing and deadly like cancer.

Nothing ever happened to him. Nothing. He knew with painful clarity that he was drowning in the mundane tedium and there was no rope that could pull him up to the surface and save him from suffocating. Everything around him seemed so dull: his job, his pastimes, even his friends. Unbearable ennui filled his days. Perhaps it was a sign of his mid-life crisis starting; John really hoped not. Still, the doctor kept wondering more and more often if he had made a mistake. Maybe he should have joined the army when he had a chance and got deployed as a medic to Afghanistan like his mate Mike Stamford. How different would his life have been then? Well, certainly he wouldn't be moaning about the lack of excitement.

John sauntered down the lane bustling with strangers rushing back and forth like ants, always busy with their little tasks. He let his eyes slide over the shop displays, regarding them absent-mindedly. All the expensive shit he didn't need nor want, all the vanities--

The burly man in a hoodie, dashing at full speed, rammed into John, knocking him down to the ground and very successfully pulling him out of his reverie. The impact of the fall rendered the doctor breathless for a few seconds. Before he could process what was happening and scramble ungainly back to his feet, the aggressor was already a block away, fleeing as if all the demons from hell were after him. Or rather... one particular demon with dark curly hair in disarray and a long coat, flapping behind him like wings of a fallen angel.

John stared blankly at the running stranger, who bore the most focused expression the doctor had ever seen. The man's pale eyes, coloured in an exotic blend of blues and greens, were riveted on the fugitive as if he had developed a tunnel vision. It wasn't entirely so, as John found out soon enough. When the runner was passing by him, the time seemed to slow down. For a second that stretched and twisted to an eternity upon aeons, the man turned his head to John. His burning gaze felt intense on the skin, just like a lash, and a welt on the doctor's soul ached eerily for a long time afterwards. John felt naked, splayed hopelessly like a specimen under a microscope before the scrutiny of the man's gaze, who seemed to strip him apart to the very cells in his body. 

“Come!” The stranger ordered, without slowing down, in a chilly baritone that sent shivers down John's spine. The doctor wasn't the master of his own limbs anymore. Like a doll on strings animated by the deft fingers of the puppeteer, John stood up and, without thinking how ridiculous this was, darted after the mysterious man in the dark coat. 

John's world shrank to the lean silhouette in front of him, to the desperate pumping of blood in his temples, to the swift, steady rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement. As his lungs worked frantically to steal more oxygen for his hyper body, John realised he couldn't remember the last time he felt so alive. He had no clue who this man was, why he was chasing the other man or – for that matter – why had he even listened to him. The doctor could have ignored the whole scene and just gone home, flicked on the telly, enjoyed some crappy shows, and then maybe gone to a pub for a pint. It could have been a completely ordinary day. 

Wasn't that prospect hateful?

John sped up, not wanting to lose the sight of the man before him. They abandoned the main thoroughfare and dived right into the narrow alleys and darkened passages hidden from the decent townsfolk. John had never been here before, wherever 'here' even was, but as long as he saw the dark coat swishing at the horizon, he didn't care much. 

Another street, another turn, jump over a rubbish container, excuse me, really sorry, sharp turn, round the corner....

The man in the coat stopped so abruptly that John nearly collided with his back.

“No, no!” The stranger groaned in frustration, his mercurial eyes shooting in frenzy around the plain looking street. A bus in the distance was just gaining momentum. “He got away!” He barked, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands in a peeved gesture.

“Um... Sorry to hear that,” John said awkwardly, not really knowing how he should behave.

The man flinched, a little startled, clearly forgetting that he wasn't alone. He whipped his head to fix his intent gaze on John. A spark of respect flashed in his eyes but promptly disappeared behind his cold demeanour. Apparently he didn't count on the fact that the passer-by would actually follow him.

“Ah, yes. Now, please concentrate, doctor,” he said, moving closer.

“What? How do you know that I'm a doc--” John trailed off as the man put both of his hands on either side of John's head and started to twirl around with him.

“I was prepared for the possibility of the criminal escaping, so I was wise enough to bring you here as my plan “b”. So, close your eyes, focus, and tell me what the man who ran you over looked like. You must have seen his face.”

“What the hell are you doing?” John said, puzzled, as they kept turning around their own axis like the world's most pathetic merry-go-round.

The stranger let out an exasperated sigh.

“I need to maximize your visual memory. The average human memory on visual matters is only 62 percent accurate. So shut up now, close your eyes, and tell me how that man looked like. Any distinguishing marks?”

John obeyed, though God only knew why, and did his best. However, the only effect he was achieving was getting more and more nauseous.

“He... um... He had brown eyes... I think. His nose was... average. I didn't see his hair... I think he had a scar on his cheek but that might have been just a wrinkle, I couldn't see properly.”

The tall man let him go. John ventured to open his eyes only to see the look of disappointment on the other's face. His heart sank. No, no, he can't be deemed as a useless idiot by that magnificent man! John didn't know who he was, but he felt this irrational urge to impress him. 

Too late. 

“Nothing! That's nothing! How can I find him now?” The man in a coat groaned and turned on his heel, walking away and still muttering something under his breath. John stared at him like a confused puppy seeing his master leave. His brain was desperately looking for a way or even a pretext to keep that man around for a while longer. 

“W-wait!” John stuttered, but the man paid him no mind. Once proven worthless, John needed a miracle to catch his attention again. Even so, the doctor wasn't one to give up easily. He was about to scratch his itching neck when the miracle happened. John had a stroke of genius. How could he not think about it earlier?

“I scratched the guy's hand pretty badly when he knocked me down. I have his DNA under my fingernails. Maybe you can use it to identify him? If he has a criminal record, he should be in a police database.”

These words made the man stop immediately. He looked back over his shoulder thoughtfully as if not sure whether he had heard correctly or not. Finally, he came back to the doctor with feline grace of a predator stalking his prey.

“I underestimated you, doctor. Apologies,” he said with a newly found esteem. “Please, show me your hand.”

And John did, observing with fascination how the stranger grabbed his hand in his pale, slender fingers hidden in a leather glove. Then he slipped his other hand inside his coat's pocket and produced a penknife and a small plastic bag with a laminated seal, just like the one the police used to collect evidence. John knew he should feel at least alarmed, standing only inches away from the odd man with a knife, but it wasn't so. The whole scene felt oddly... intimate. A handsome thirty-something holding his hand with gentleness of a caring mother while putting the remnants of foreign skin into the bag. John felt himself blush. What the hell was wrong with him?

“How did you know I'm a doctor?” He asked to avert his thoughts from more unsettling areas.

“I didn't know, I observed,” he replied, not losing his concentration even for a fraction of second. “And I've seen much more. Just by looking at you, I can deduce that you're a wealthy bachelor, who yesterday got lucky with a red-headed woman in her mid-thirties that you met at the pub – who claimed to be younger, sorry to disappoint – and due to a night of a loving bliss overslept and were late to work,” the stranger recited impassively, as if was talking about weather.

John was speechless for a moment.

“How on earth could you possibly kn---”

“It's quite simple, actually.” And the long string of acute observations ensued. John could hardly keep up as he was bombarded with one deduction after another. The seemingly unimportant details connected like dots, creating a whole new picture. Once explained, everything made so much sense!

When the man finished, John was in awe.

“That was... brilliant. Extraordinary.”

There was a moment of silence when the stranger shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to react to compliment. 

“You think so?”

“Of course!” John beamed at him with nothing but honesty, and the man reluctantly mirrored the smile. He looked at least a couple of years younger when he did that, but he quickly averted his gaze to the task as if he was afraid to show too much of emotions. 

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

“Piss off.”

Despite his best efforts, an undignified giggle escaped the doctor’s throat and he saw that the corner of the stranger’s lips tilted up slightly as well.

“Who was that bloke you pursued, anyway?” John inquired when all the evidence had been collected. For some reason, he felt bizarrely abandoned without the man's hand on his. What a silly thought! 

“He stole my skull. I'm in the middle of changing flats and that thief saw his opportunity when the door wasn't properly locked. I want it back.”

“Your... skull?” 

“A friend. And when I say friend... Well, anyway, I have to dash. I left my riding crop at the morgue,” The stranger said with a disarming air of uncharacteristic congeniality. 

The cat got John's tongue, and before he could stammer his reply, the man was already a few metres away, walking briskly with his head held up high.

“Who are you?” John shouted at him, the curiosity overcoming the shock. 

“The name's Sherlock Holmes!” He replied perkily as he twirled around, gave John a playful wink, and strutted off into the alley.

John stared after him unblinkingly. He was dumbfounded, lost in a part of the city he didn't know, and unsure what the hell really happened. And to his horror and utter surprise - very, very infatuated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/), [paintingdeserts](http://paintingdeserts.tumblr.com/) and [kittykat5742](http://kittykat5742.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

_Sherlock Holmes_.

John couldn't forget that name even if he wanted to. And he did. Tried, at least, but this unique combination of letters seemed to have been etched deeply inside his mind. 

Almost a week had passed since that random encounter where John – absolutely without thinking, as if his brain switched off in that very moment – dashed like a fool after the man in the coat and helped him to identify the thief they were pursuing. It was all completely ridiculous, and as far from John's usual daily routine as possible.

The doctor had loved every second of it. 

Yes, he couldn't deny that he missed it. The excitement, that is. The thrill of a chase. Breaking the mould. Fighting the boredom. It was mind-blowing, exhilarating, and he longed for it more than he could express. Yes, precisely for that and just for that - excitement. Definitely not for the way Sherlock's eyes were glistening when he deduced half of John's life story from just one glance, obviously. Certainly not how the light was casting bright reflexions on the man's raven curls. Not the little enigmatic smile playing at the corner of his lips; not the low, alluring tones of his voice. That would be absolutely preposterous. John wasn't even gay. Not that there was anything wrong in being gay. John simply didn't swing that way.

The fact that he was thinking of Sherlock at work didn't mean anything. He was simply bored with an endless stream of patients and had nothing better to do. Besides, he didn't think of Sherlock all the time, just occasionally. All right, maybe also once or twice at home. Or thrice, at the most. The movie on the telly was dull, and his thoughts simply drifted off to a more intriguing subject. There was no way of controlling them, was there? That dream he had about lacing his fingers with Sherlock's didn't count, either. 

Whether John liked it or not, Sherlock Holmes had made an indelible impression on him. Once, during a wakeful night when he was rolling from side to side in a vain attempt to fall asleep, John decided that he needed to know more about the strange man. Maybe if he satisfied his curiosity, he could simply move on and concentrate on his life...

Yeah, that gray, mundane life he hated more and more with each day. No doubt, he needed to know more about the madman who had made him run all around London like an obedient puppy.

John stood up and scuffed barefooted to his desk, where he turned on his laptop. Seeing the familiar wallpaper – a military-looking vehicle riding through the Afghan wasteland; a sight to remind him what he had missed – John scoffed. What he was doing right now didn't make an ounce of sense. Chasing after and pining for a man he met briefly on a street? Really, John? Utterly dumb. And yet he couldn't stop, even knowing all that. He’d enjoyed their meeting far too much to simply let it go. It couldn't be any other way – in that man John saw everything he once wanted to be before reality smashed his dreams to pieces. 

Still, when John opened up Google and searched for “Sherlock Holmes,” he felt a lot like a teenage girl stalking her crush. That thought made him blush furiously. What idiocy! 

John closed the laptop swiftly and returned to bed, wrapping himself up in a nice, warm burrito. He shut his eyes tight with a strong resolution never to think about Sherlock Holmes ever again.

During that night alone he broke this resolve thirty-two times, but it took another day and a lunch break for John to actually try and do some proper research on the elusive man that haunted his memories. John sat down in the cafeteria with a plate of bland looking and even worse tasting pasta and produced a phone from his pocket. After a moment of vehement inner struggle, he finally admitted defeat and put up a white flag - he simply had to know more about the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, or he would never find peace again.

When he typed the name into the search engine, the first result was a website called The Science of Deduction. Well, that did sound like Sherlock, so John opened it up curiously. The more he read, the wider his eyes became. Did Sherlock really claim that he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb? That seemed rather far-fetched... or maybe not so much, since John had witnessed himself the glimpse of how that brilliant mind worked. Sherlock could read people like books. He could read _John_ like a book.

Why did it seem so alluring? 

John was engrossed, browsing through the site and checking all the pages. He was impressed before; now he was nearly ecstatic. He had apparently met London's most interesting man, who’d invented the job of consulting detective and helped both the police and private clients to solve their mystifying problems. At least as long as he deemed them interesting and worth his time.

John felt in his stomach a nearly tangible need to see the sleuth again. How to help fate a little and ensure that their paths would cross again? Fortunately, John didn't have to resort to anything extreme like committing a murder in the vain hope that Sherlock would come after him – the site provided him with the new address where the mad detective lived. 221b Baker Street. So that was where the man had moved into. John wondered if he had got his skull back in the end . 

Baker Street... It wasn't far from the hospital. Maybe he could go and take a peek? At the building, obviously. Just to see what neighbourhood Sherlock resided in. Without trying to get inside, of course; that would be desperate and quite creepy. But if it just so happened that he met Sherlock on the street... Well, that would be a very fortunate turn of events. 

John spent the rest of his shift sitting on pins and needles, eager to get out. That was sad, really. How low have you sunk, John? The detective most likely didn't even remember him. John was a nobody; surely just one of hundreds of insignificant people Mr. Holmes encountered on a daily basis. Why would he think about a doctor he met in passing? And, most importantly, why did John even care? The doctor preferred not to dwell too long on that question because his heart was suspiciously and loudly thrumming in his chest. 

At last, John was free to go. He gladly left the hospital, ignoring his colleagues' remarks that he looked so happy he was surely going on a date. A date? Yeah, right. If only... No, stop!

John decided to take a walk and clear his head. It was getting dark already, but it didn't deter John. To be honest, nothing could discourage him. He strode briskly to his destination under the colourful, pulsating glow of neon lights. 

After about twenty minutes, he was there. He stood in front of 221b, gawking at the door, and wondered what Sherlock was doing right now. Was he even at home? Probably not. Maybe he was busy with an ongoing investigation? John had read in the papers all about various mysterious crimes that plagued the city. Perhaps Sherlock was on his way to uncover some sinister plot? 

John felt torn. Part of him wanted to simply walk away, since doing anything more here would be inappropriate. But there was another part deep within him that was telling him to knock on the door. He could come up with some excuse; after all, he had lied to his girlfriends so many times before. 

The decision was impossible to make. The universe, though, decided to help him out. 

“The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!” came an excited cry from the inside of the building. The door flung open. Sherlock Holmes stormed out of the flat and nearly walked right into John Watson, who was completely caught by surprise. 

“Er... Hello,” the doctor muttered awkwardly, getting completely flustered like a teenage boy caught red-handed peeking through his crush's window. Sherlock seemed baffled, but as far as John could tell, it wasn't a negative sort of a surprise. If Watson's eyes didn't deceive him, he could have sworn that a pleased smile flickered across the man's heart-shaped lips.

“Well, if it isn't the sprinting doctor. I didn't expect to see you again.”

So he did remember him. John had to swallow a lump in his throat before he was able to speak.

“Well... I-I accidentally found your website - The Science of Deduction, a very interesting read – and since I was in the vicinity I-I...” 

Sherlock cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Doesn't matter. I have to go somewhere urgently,” he insisted, going past John, and walking into the street where he hailed a cab.

John felt his heart clench. The disillusionment was as painful as claws ripping his body to shreds. He didn't imagine their second encounter to look like this. Well, he shouldn't have counted on anything. His dreams went out the door, leaving only heartache. He should have known better. Why would Sherlock want to associate with a nobody?

An impatient voice pierced right through John's cocoon of self-pity.

“So? Are you coming or not?” Sherlock grumbled, peeking out of the cab. John's lips formed a letter 'o' before his face broke into a grin. He didn't need to be told twice. With a new rush of energy seeping through his veins, John ran to the car and slipped inside, sitting right beside Sherlock. The detective flashed him a smug smirk and told the address to the cabbie. The engine revved and they were on their way. 

John felt his palms became sweaty. Once again he had done something without thinking about consequences. And yet his main concern right now wasn't his own safety. He was more preoccupied with the fact that Sherlock didn't know his name. That needed to be fixed.

“Mr. Holmes, I'm John, by the way. John Watson,” he tentatively ventured to introduce himself.

Sherlock scoffed as if he had heard something painfully obvious, and thus hardly worth mentioning.

“Call me Sherlock. And I know.”

John's face crinkled up in confusion.

“You... know? How could you possibly know? I never told you my name.”

Sherlock tried to sound flippant, but there was something in his voice: an odd mixture of shyness and hesitance that was masterfully concealed by loftiness, but definitely still there.

“I did my research. It wasn't particularly difficult to find the name of a blond surgeon in his mid-thirties in hospital records.” 

John was fairly certain that his cheeks flushed red. Could it be...? He dreaded to even hope. Surely such a man couldn't possibly be interested in him. Before he could bite his tongue, the words flew right out of his mouth.

“Why did you research me?” 

“Why did _you_ research _me_?” he replied with a question of his own, fixing his intent gaze on John. “You must have browsed through my site quite thoroughly, since you knew my address.”

The doctor felt very uncomfortable, as if he was a sample lying under a microscope. He cleared his throat, wanting to change the subject.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

The moment was gone. Sherlock turned his head slightly away, his expression unreadable as if he was deep in thoughts.

“To the crime scene, obviously.”

“What crime scene?”

“The serial suicide one. This time the victim left a note.”

It was fortunate that John was up to date with recent crimes. The name rang a bell. A mysterious case where three people without any apparent connection to one another committed suicide, all of them taking the same poison. The public was getting restless, and apparently for good reason, since there was yet another victim. 

“So what do you make of them?” John inquired, crossing his legs at the ankles. 

“Too early to say. I'd rather not jump to conclusions without first having all the available data.“

“Fair enough,” John said, unable to contain an excited smile. He could hardly believe that he was going to a real crime scene. Working side by side with the world's only consulting detective to solve the despicable case of mysterious suicides - who would have thought! Maybe London wasn't a proper battlefield, but John Watson radiated enthusiasm and readiness to fight.

Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eyes, marvelling at how interesting this clichéd man was turning out to be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.
> 
> This fic includes some original dialogue lines from A Study in Pink. [Ariane DeVere's transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html?thread=567570) were very helpful. Thanks for your hard work and making writers lives easier!

The ride actually took quite a while, and when they finally arrived at the crime scene it was already dark outside. At least as dark as it could be in a big city under the halo of lanterns and colourful signs. The duo hadn't talked much in the cab, since Sherlock seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and John didn't really want to interrupt him. What kind of incomprehensible wonders dwelled in that brilliant mind of his? The doctor didn't feel competent enough to even attempt a guess. Perhaps Sherlock's brain was like the ocean – beautiful and vast, but deadly if you went too deep. 

Only when the car ground to a halt and they started walking towards the flashing red-blue lights amid the commotion caused by many police offers walking about and talking to each other, did John venture to ask.

“Did you get it back?”

The consulting detective furrowed his eyebrows and whipped his head in the direction of his companion. Thanks to John keeping mostly quiet, he had nearly forgotten about him, so used he was to being all alone.

“What?” he asked in confusion.

John had to suppress a smile. Telling Sherlock that he looked quite adorable with the expression of bafflement on his face, probably wouldn't be the smartest idea. The man must already think of him as some kind of a creepy stalker, so John would rather not confirm those suspicions and blow his chances altogether. Not that he thought he had any chances with this magnificent genius. Not that he even _wanted_ to have any chances with this magnificent genius in the first place. Honestly, that would be just ridiculous.

“Your skull,” he specified. “You were running after a thief when we first met and you said he nicked it. Did you find it in the end?” John really wanted to know. If Sherlock had been successful that would make the doctor's contribution to the investigation truly useful.

“Oh. Skull. Yes. Obviously. It was a child's play once I found out the identity of the burglar,” he explained flippantly, not feeling like sharing any details. They were irrelevant after all. Still, he added for John's benefit, “The skull's back on the mantelpiece as he should be.”

“You're welcome,” John stated with a crooked smile. Sherlock replied with a small smirk of his own, but didn't offer anything beyond that. They understood each other perfectly well without pointless words. 

Slowly, they approached the police tape that cut off the fragment of road. John felt his heart thrumming in his chest – he had never been at a crime scene before. Sure, he dealt with the aftermath as he was patching up the victims lucky enough to survive, but he'd never been so close to the actual event, let alone such a famous one. The bizarre serial suicides! He tried not to let the excitement show too much, though. Some overzealous police officer might arrest him as a suspect and that would be very not good. 

As they stood in front of a cocky-looking woman who blocked their way, John attempted to look as innocuous as possible. However, when she greeted Sherlock with a condescending “hello, freak,” the good doctor immediately felt a surge of emotions - aversion aimed at her, and something much more warm and protective towards the detective. After a short banter that established their business here – Sherlock must have known her well and vice versa... Stop it John, they clearly hated each other, jealousy wasn't warranted, for God's sake! Stop embarrassing yourself! – the detective took a step towards the tape and ducked under it, throwing more scathing remarks at the woman. John couldn't muster up any sympathy for her; she had it coming. 

Once John actually came closer to the tape, wanting to follow after Sherlock, he felt her hand on his chest, stopping him in his place. 

“Er, who's this?” She asked as if she just registered the presence of the other man. Sherlock was quick to supply the desired reply.

“Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson,” he introduced him and then turned his head towards his companion, smirking. “Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old _friend_.” Judging by the amount of sarcasm he put into that word there was no love lost between them. Good. Sherlock and attractive women just didn't mix well together in John's book. Still, he hoped to be called something else than just a colleague, but then they didn't know each other for a long time. Actually, it was their second meeting. How odd. John could have sworn they were mates for ages. 

“A colleague?” she asked with a sneer. The expression on her face was purely derisive, as if what Sherlock had said was so preposterous that she didn't even need to make an effort to turn it into something even more ridiculous. “How do _you_ get a colleague?” She snorted, clearly amused by the idea. “What, did he follow you home?” She aimed that snide question at John, who was getting more and more annoyed. He was about to say something to defend his... _the_ detective's honour when the man himself chimed in with confidence. 

“No. Actually, he followed _me_ home, which is fortunate, since I'm in need of medical expertise and he can provide it in a much better way than the Yard's finest, since he's not a moron,” he stated matter-of-factly, but with an impish satisfaction in his eyes. He grabbed the tape and lifted it with a sweeping gesture. John took that as a cue to join him, which he promptly did. His heart swelled. 'Not a moron' was probably the biggest compliment Sherlock Holmes could give to anyone. 

The woman admitted her defeat as she announced with exasperation through the radio that she was bringing 'the freak' in. Sherlock didn't seem to pay any attention to the insult, but John's blood was boiling. How could these people be so disparaging towards their consultant, the smartest person in the vicinity? They should be grateful to have such an amazing mind on board. Ungrateful bastards. 

The trio quickly paced in the direction of the house where apparently the crime had been committed. The large number of policemen coming in and out of it was a significant clue for that deduction. Most of them just cast the detective a curious look and whispered among themselves, but didn't engage him or insult him in any way. One of them, though, a man in a bluish plastic coverall, was clearly bent on having a confrontation. His eyes were set on Sherlock and the expression on his face was akin to a mask of irritation and contempt. It wasn't hard to guess what that man was thinking about and what words were forming on his tongue.

This time John couldn't remain silent and he made an pre-emptive verbal attack, gaining a tactical advantage.

“I'm warning you, if you want to call Sherlock a 'freak' or any other ridiculous and untrue slur, I'm going to punch your teeth in,” John said evenly as if he was commenting on the weather and not directly threatening an officer on duty. That only made everything scarier. 

The look of surprise that appeared on Sherlock's face was nothing compared to the utter consternation on the man's countenance. 

“Who is he?” he stuttered in confusion, hoping for some clarification. Sherlock was eager to provide it once the effect of a shock wore off.

“He's my assistant,” he explained smugly and, if John wasn't mistaken, also with a sliver of pride. “Coincidentally, he's also an ex-soldier, so do try not to make him angry – he has twitchy fingers and a long history of violence. And now, back off, Anderson. We're busy.”

The man must have been so dumbfounded and overwhelmed that he automatically stepped aside, staring unblinkingly at the two of them. Sherlock walked right by him, not gracing him with another glance. John followed, hard on Sherlock's heels, wanting to disappear inside the house as quickly as possible. When the rush of righteous indignation subsided, he felt rather guilty about his outburst. What the hell was he thinking? Making threats to people, really John? That wasn't his style. Sherlock's voice, as they began walking down the corridor, broke his chain of thoughts.

“What you did there, John, that was... good,” he stated, keeping a fast, steady pace. John couldn't dawdle if he wanted to keep up.

“Oh.” Gratefulness was the last thing he expected, honestly. How should he even interpret that? “It's nothing. I just hate bullies,” he explained truthfully. The detective might pretend all he wanted that the harsh words were like water off a duck's back to him, but John knew better how damaging the constant abuse, physical or not, could be. And that certainly wasn't the first time Sherlock had been called a freak. It seemed it was some kind of nickname or a running joke among the force and that made John very upset, perhaps more than was logical or appropriate. 

Sherlock didn't say anything else, but John wanted to clarify something. 

“You told that man... Anderson, that I was a soldier. I wasn't. And you know that,” he pointed out, refusing to believe that the brilliant detective would made such a glaring mistake.

“True. You were not. But you look like one when you're angry. Perhaps you chose a wrong career path,” he said, giving John food for thought during the journey to the room on the ground floor. A middle-aged man with gray hair was struggling there to put on a coverall. 

“You need to wear one of these,” Sherlock said to John, pointing to some spare protective clothes. The policeman jumped a bit, startled by Sherlock's voice, but somehow not really surprised. What alarmed him, thought, was seeing another civilian at the crime scene.

“Who's this?” he asked, eyeing John suspiciously. The doctor once again tried to look as harmless as a limping kitten. 

“He's with me,” Sherlock replied calmly, taking his leather gloves off and putting them into his coat's pocket. He didn't seem peeved that people were asking him the same question over and over again. It was almost as if he enjoyed stressing the fact that this time he didn't come alone, but had a companion.

The policeman didn't seem content with such an answer, though. “But who _is_ he?” he insisted. 

“I said: he's with me,” Sherlock countered, this time with palpable irritation. That was apparently as far as he could go with repeating himself. 

John was fed up with being treated like a ghost, so he added, “I'm his assistant. Dr. John Watson,” he introduced himself, extending his hand towards the man, who eyed him up and down, his eyebrows raised.

“God help your poor soul,” the policeman said jokingly, giving him a firm shake. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He seemed like a rather straightforward and affable bloke who had the expression 'I hate my life' plastered on his forehead. Somehow John took an instant liking to him. The inspector didn't seem so adverse towards Sherlock, like his subordinates, and that was enough to win John over. 

“Do hurry up, we don't have the whole day,” Sherlock grumbled petulantly, already with latex gloves on, pacing anxiously around the room. 

“Right, sorry,” John wasn't entirely sure why he apologised, but decided not to dwell too much on that. He picked up the spare coverall and did his best to deal with it quickly. “Aren't you gonna put one on?” he asked, but instead of an answer he was merely given an 'are you insane?' glare. “Yeah, think not. Figures.”

“So where are we?” Sherlock asked, eager to delve right into the case.

“Upstairs,” Lestrade pointed with his chin to the narrow, circular staircase, and seeing that the detective's patience was running thin, he made sure for the last time that the coverall was fitting properly before he guided him towards the steps. John had to put the damned thing on in express time just to keep up with them and not be left behind. If he was truly an assistant, he should be able to assist to the best of his humble abilities. 

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade warned as they reached the second floor. 

“May need longer,” Sherlock replied casually, his mind probably already running on full speed to tackle the challenge visible on the horizon. 

Lestrade went on as if he didn't hear the detective's remark. Or, more likely, he had heard them far too often to care anymore. “Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit card. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her.”

So nothing got stolen, John thought to himself. Well, that was kind of obvious, since it was supposedly a suicide. Somehow no one seemed to believe that theory anymore, though.

Without further delay they entered a dingy, squalid room that stank of mould, completely empty, apart from a ramshackeled rocking horse in the far corner. Creepy. Obviously, there was also a body, which in the pale light set up by the forensic team seemed out of this world, like a spectre. John wasn't a stranger to the sight of corpses, but he still felt rather uneasy. It was a different thing to see someone resting peacefully on a slab as opposed to witnessing firsthand the result of a person's untimely end in more violent and unexpected circumstances.

The victim was a woman, lying on her stomach on the floorboards. She was dressed in a pink overcoat and matching high-heels, far too bright and tacky for John's taste. Her hands were pressed flat on both sides of her head, at some distance from her long blond hair, now in complete disarray. Such a waste of human life...

“Shut up,” Sherlock's sharp order aimed at Lestrade, surprised both the DI and the doctor. 

“I didn't say anything,” he answered defensively.

“You were thinking. It's annoying.”

John and Lestrade exchanged brief glances. John had to bite on his cheek not to burst out laughing. What a presumptuous dick Sherlock was! Why did he even find that hilarious when he should have been appalled by his companion's behaviour? Honestly, John had no idea. Not really wanting to ponder about that too deeply, he focused on the detective, who moved about the room in silence, most likely noticing every detail, and then stopped to examine the body. Basically, Sherlock was doing his intellectual magic. He started with the message scratched into the floor that read “RACHE.” John had no idea what that could mean.

None of the witnesses dared to interrupt the detective's thought process for several minutes as they waited, hungry for new information. Finally, Lestrade broke the silence when he felt Sherlock was taking too long. 

“Got anything?”

“Not much,” he replied nonchalantly, though John was fairly sure that it was just a pose. The perky motion with which Sherlock took the gloves off and began typing on his phone indicated that he had indeed acquired some valuable insight and was nearly bursting with concealed complacency. He had a penchant for being dramatic. 

“She's German.” Until now no one had noticed Anderson creeping up and standing in the doorway, assuming an affected position of a thinker, which didn't suit him all that well. Apparently, John's cold shoulder hadn't dissuaded him from approaching them again. “ _Rache_ , it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something...” 

Sherlock walked briskly towards the door and shut it right in the man's face. “Yes, thank you for your input,” he said, not taking his eyes off the phone. He was checking something, leaving his audience completely in the dark. John's fascinated gaze followed his every step. 

“So she's really German?” asked Lestrade incredulously. Since the woman's name was Jennifer Wilson, that theory seemed unlikely in John's mind, but he kept his mouth shut, letting the genius take the floor. 

“Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night...” he paused for a second before his face lit up as he found what he was looking for. “...before returning to Cardiff,” he finished triumphantly, throwing his phone back to his pocket. “So far, so obvious.”

“Sorry, obvious?” John asked, tilting his head. Nothing was obvious to him, which made him feel like a fool. It seemed he wasn't the only one.

“What about the message, though?” insisted Lestrade. 

Sherlock ignored him completely, focusing his attention solely on John. His voice seemed to be infinitesimally warmer. “Dr. Watson. John. What do you think?”

“Of the message?”

“Of the body. You're a medical man, are you not?” he asked, the rise of his eyebrows obviously challenging the doctor to prove himself. There was nothing John wanted to do more. Knowing that the brilliant mind was giving him a chance, he didn't want to fail.

“Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside!” Lestrade protested. John was too pumped to just resign and let himself be shoved out the door. It was far too important to him to be diffident. That was not his style. 

“I'm a qualified doctor, inspector, and currently Sherlock's assistant. I know what I am doing,” he said calmly, lying through his teeth. He had no clue what Sherlock expected of him, but he omitted that insignificant detail. The policeman glared at him a little, but then gave up with a deep sigh, which almost made John feel sorry for him. The man lifted his gaze heavenward for a moment before he waved his hand begrudgingly, giving John permission to do whatever he wanted, not that he cared anymore. He'd end up fired or in mental ward anyway. 

Encouraged further by Sherlock's 'show-me-what-you-can-do' smile, John paced to the dead woman and crouched beside her, licking his lips involuntarily in a rather nervous manner. He couldn't screw this up. There was no better way to show the detective his worth than by proving himself to be useful. The sentence 'what should I do?' nearly flew out of his mouth but he managed to bite his tongue in time. No, he had this. He knew the drill. 

John leaned over the corpse, suddenly remembering his days as a student at Bart's where he had to figure out what was wrong with the patient under the scrutiny of his professor's gaze. Feeling the familiar tinge of stress and that unique spark of excitement that lit up his eyes far too seldom for his liking, he got down to work. He started with bending his head close to the victim's, observing the expression on her face, lack of bruises and the colour of her lips and skin. The putrid smell of vomit was distinct in the air and almost made his stomach churn. One couldn't really get used to it, even while being a doctor. He finished by checking her hands and then stood up.

“Well, she died...” he began, but Sherlock simply had to interrupt.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper,” he said with that smug smirk on his face, which John both hated and found extremely alluring. 

“...of asphyxiation, probably,” he finished, smiling at the detective briefly, just to indicate that he had an arse... that he _was_ an arse. Clearing his throat at this mental Freudian slip, he continued, getting right back on track. “Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was. You've read the papers. We talked about this on our way here,” Sherlock reminded him pointedly.

“The suicide case. She's the fourth?” 

Lestrade had had enough of all the sexual tension and flirting going on in the room. His patience was wearing thin. 

“Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need everything you've got,” he urged, at the end of his tether.

It seemed the detective had only been waiting for a nudge from his audience of two. One deep breath and Sherlock's words were bouncing around the walls like ricochets from a machine gun.

“Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked in confusion, exchanging glances with John one more time. Neither of them had seen any suitcases so far.

“Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God's sake, if you're making this up...” Lestrade crinkled his face in disbelief, possibly thinking that Sherlock was pulling his leg. Little as he knew the detective, John kept his faith, which wasn't let down. 

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of the marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That's brilliant,” John gasped, staring at Sherlock like an adoring puppy. Was there no limit to the man's brilliance?

Sherlock gave him a surprised glance in return. The look in his eyes betrayed that he actually liked the compliment a lot. He even puffed out his chest a bit like a peacock about to parade before his mate and show off all he had best. He was just warming up. Before anyone could add anything else, he went on a lengthy explanation of how he deduced from the dampness of her coat that the woman was from Cardiff.

“That's fantastic!” John simply couldn't stop himself. Really, fantastic didn't even begin to cover it.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock said in a hushed voice, having trouble to fully process the man's admiration.

“Sorry, I'll shut up...”

“No, it's... fine,” the detective decided haltingly, as if he had surprised even himself. He looked definitely out of his element. Apparently he couldn't deal with emotions with the same ease he was handling his mental work. 

Lestrade almost groaned. He hadn't seen people so awkwardly in love since Pride and Prejudice. He had to steer the conversation again into the direction of an actual investigation or those two would stare at each other in awe until breakfast.

“Why do you keep saying 'suitcase'?”

Sherlock shuddered as if waking up from the trance. He began twirling around the room, his coat whushing behind him. 

“Where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing 'Rachel'?” Lestrade inquired, this time releasing snark from the detective, who was getting fed up with slowness of everyone around him. 

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel! No other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“Maybe that's the name of the killer? Someone she knew killed her?” John offered, wanting to be a productive member of the team deduction.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied pensively, though didn't seem convinced. 

John was so lost in thoughts, searching frantically for anything that would provide a clue to help solve this whole bizarre situation, that he barely registered another inspector's question about the suitcase and Sherlock's reply in the form of an instance of uncanny reasoning about how the woman dragged a small case behind her with her right hand. 

“There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase,” Lestrade insisted. 

That piece of information baffled Sherlock greatly. Without any warning, he dashed out of the room and began running down the stairs, screaming, “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

As they followed him, Lestrade stopped at the landing, but John ran after the mad detective, cursing under his breath the coverall he was wearing and how restraining and uncomfortable it was. 

“Sherlock, there was no case!” 

John thought that this Lestrade fellow should cease being a broken record and change the repertoire. Obviously, Sherlock couldn't take 'you're wrong' for an answer. The detective thankfully slowed down a bit, falling into a reverie, and thus allowing John to catch up with him, thought he probably hadn't done it on purpose. In his pondering mode Sherlock hardly noticed anything not connected to the case, as far as John could guess.

Even though Sherlock was talking aloud, it was clear that he was mostly just thinking to himself.

“But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you couldn't miss it,” he stated, glancing up at Lestrade.

“Right, yeah, thanks. And?”

“It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings.” That piece of information seemed to brighten his day, since he clapped his hands briefly in front of his face, smiling with unabashed joy. “We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward too.”

“Well, that's one way to look at it,” John muttered. The future victims would possibly beg to differ.

Sherlock was nearly in a frantic state, shouting at the poor souls that came into the line of his vision.

“Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,” he toned down his voice a bit, once again addressing no one in particular. “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,” John pointed out, taking the gloves off. No sense in keeping them, since they were apparently leaving the crime scene. 

“No, she never got to the hotel,” he waved off that idea dismissively. “Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...” Sherlock stopped at once and John nearly bumped into his back. “Oh,” he gasped, and his face was suddenly adorned with the brightest smile the doctor had seen yet. “Oh!”

“Sherlock?” he asked with uncertainty, dazzled by the sparkling of the detective's beautiful eyes.

“What is it, what?” Lestrade demanded to know, leaning over the railing. A few inches more and he would have plunged down to his death, but he didn't seem particularly concerned. 

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake,” Sherlock said, grinning to himself like the Cheshire cat. 

“We can't just wait!” Lestrade stressed firmly. His career was on the line, not to mention the lives of some poor bastards who didn't know yet that they could fall victim to suicide soon.

“Oh, we're done waiting!” Sherlock roared impatiently, running down the stairs again. John almost tripped and fell, trying to keep up. Damned protective clothes! He began wriggling out of them with irritation, watching as Sherlock reached the ground floor.

“Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!”

“Of course, yeah. But what mistake?” Lestrade shouted after him, which caused Sherlock to take a step back and actually climb up a few stairs again just to shout at the inspector at the top of his lungs.

“Pink!”

And that was all before the detective disappeared again.

“Sherlock, wait!” John cried out after him, cursing, as he got terribly entangled in the coverall. After a bit of a struggle – lots of sweat but thankfully without blood or tears – he finally managed to kick it off. With no further restraint, he ran out of the building as fast as he could, whipping his head around to see where Sherlock had gone. The only thing he could see was the hem of the man's coat disappearing inside a cab, about fifty metres from him.

“No, Sherlock, wait!” he yelled at the revving car, running headlong after it. He had to dash past that woman, Donovan, who shouted advice for him.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!”

That wasn't advice he would ever consider taking. Though, to be honest, now, as his heart was pumping the blood desperately while he chased in vain after a cab, that thought was quite tempting. 

“Sherlock! Stop the car!” he screamed, flailing his arms around. Probably all the people in the street thought of him as a madman, but he had other worries at the moment. 

His persistence was rewarded by the car grinding to a halt and the door on the right side opening.

“Come on, John, move!” Came an irritated growl from the inside. 

The doctor didn't need to be told twice. He used all his remaining strength to catch up and jumped right into the car, which started speeding again instantly. 

“You could have waited for me!” John breathed out with a grievance in his voice, panting.

“You could have come quicker,” he retorted with that annoying smirk of his. John would gladly smack him just to make it disappear. Preferably smack him aggressively with his own lips.

Did he really just think that? 

“Er, where are we going?” he asked, trying to divert his attention from the curve of the detective's mouth.

“Hunting.”

“Hunting what?”

“The suitcase, John! The suitcase!” He should have been cackling like an evil mastermind to complete the picture of maniacal agitation. And God, it suited him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

Once again they spent the majority of the journey in silence, although it definitely couldn't be described as an uncomfortable one. Maybe they hadn't known each other long, but John was already getting used to the lack of superfluous word exchange between them. How refreshing not to have to make an effort of pointless small talk! Despite his politeness, John usually found social niceties dull and tiring. He could only suspect what a dreadful waste of time and energy something like that was to the astute detective. 

John turned his head slightly to scrutinize his companion discreetly. He could easily imagine Sherlock's brainwaves crashing against the confines of his skull, barely containing such genius. A small wonder nothing leaked outside, however gruesome that picture would appear. It was truly fascinating to observe the detective's absolute concentration when he thought deeply about something, most probably the next step in the ongoing suicides investigation. If his words were to be believed, and there was no reason not to believe him, they were after the mysterious pink suitcase of Jennifer Wilson, who reportedly had it with her before she died. Sherlock believed that it was the key to this whole mystery. John didn't feel competent enough in criminology – or rather: deductology – to propose an alternative lead to pursue, so he simply kept quiet, bottling up his excitement, not wanting to disturb the mental processes of this amazing man. 

After what couldn't have been longer than five minutes since they entered the cab, Sherlock shouted out of the blue, startling both his companion and the driver nearly to death, “Stop the car!”

The cabbie slammed hard on the brakes and John grabbed the seatbelt as he fell forward, almost banging his head painfully against the front seat. The car had barely ground to a halt with an ungodly screech of the tyres when Sherlock jumped out of it, leaving John to his own devices. And to pay the fare, which the doctor did, albeit rather grudgingly.

“What was that about?” he asked after a small trot when he joined the detective on the pavement. “And where are we?” As he looked around, he noticed that once again it was a part of the city he had never seen before. Another thing he was already getting used to. Perhaps after this whole adventure was over he should write a guidebook: _Touring Round London with a Mad Detective_. It would definitely be a bestseller.

The neighbourhood they found themselves in seemed painfully... mundane, and John couldn't point to anything that was out of the ordinary. Nothing more than a line of plain looking tenement houses that had seen better days. The surroundings felt a bit solitary and sepulchral now that it was dark, but apart from that subjective sensation he couldn’t add anything more to the characterisation. Maybe he shouldn't write that book in the end. Not enough creative aptitude. 

“We're within five minutes ride distance from Lauriston Gardens. The killer must have realised somewhere around here that he was still in possession of the suitcase. It was left in his car, since he drove the victim to the spot where she died. The case was pink, so it would draw attention, especially if the killer was a man, which is statistically more likely. He had to get rid of it as quickly as possible in this area. Granted, it could have been any other side from the last killing site, but this one is closer to the city centre and thus the most probable choice. We have to start somewhere, anyway,” Sherlock explained at such a speed that he barely paused for breath, walking in the direction of a shabby looking alley filled with overflowing dumpsters and the putrid smell of decay. “We have to check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being seen.”

“Charming,” John muttered to himself, but he was hard on the detective's heels. “If you knew that the case would be here somewhere, why didn't you say anything to the police? They have enough men to conduct a wide scale search.”   
“Four people are dead, John. There is no time to deal with the police,” Sherlock stated flippantly, which made the doctor smile, although it probably should not. People might say a lot of things about the detective, but certainly he could not be deemed as even minutely modest. Or cooperative. Presumptuous bastard. 

“And what about this Lestrade bloke? He doesn't seem that bad. Who is he?”

Sherlock cast John a sidelong glance, squeezing his eyes in a menacing way. 

“Why do you want to know?”

Was there a hint of jealousy in Sherlock's voice? No, he surely must have imagined that. Ridiculous.

“No reason. Just curious.” John shrugged his shoulders to show he didn't have any hidden agenda. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“I don't have _friends_ ,” he spat. Before John could react in any way to this declaration, he quickly supplied additional information. “Lestrade asks me for help when the police are out of their depths, which is always. It's mutually beneficial, but strictly a professional relationship.” 

“Oh. Good,” escaped John's mouth. It took the quirk of Sherlock's eyebrow for the doctor's brain to realise with what relief he had uttered those words. He cleared his throat to mask embarrassment. Really, John, you are far too old to behave in such a way. Worse than a love-sick teenager, honestly. “I mean, it's good that the police need your help, obviously. They can catch the bad guys and you're not getting bored. It's a win-win arrangement.” 

“Yes...”

There was some kind of tension between them, but John decided not to point out the elephant in the room. Perhaps there was no elephant. Maybe there was no room either. John had to stop reading too much into something that didn't even exist. That stupid hope...

“So... The pink case? Where should we look for it?” John asked just to say something. 

“Everywhere. Particularly the dumpsters. Good luck,” he replied, pacing down the street. Despite his declaration, he strutted past the garbage containers, not sparing them even a cursory glance. John stopped, looking in confusion at the back of Sherlock's gorgeously curly head.

“What about you? You're not looking?”

“Why should I? I don't like getting dirty when I don't have to. Besides, my best man is already on it,” he announced nonchalantly, waving it off.

“Great...” John had mixed feelings about all this and he knew that he was pretty much being shamelessly manipulated, but the satisfaction of being called the detective's best man for the task overshadowed every inconvenience he might encounter. At least so he thought until he opened the first skip and nearly gagged. The stench of rancid butter and other filth he'd rather not ever identify attacked his nostrils with vicious force. As he peered inside warily and poked around in search of pinkness, he began to wonder what the hell he was even doing here. It was all madness. He should be at home right now, putting his feet up in front of the telly and watching some brain-damaging TV show with a bottle of beer in his hand...

No, did he seriously consider that a more appealing alternative? Come on, John, you know you had been bored out of your mind with this life where the most exciting thing that could happen was a clogged toilet. No, no, no, I'd definitely take rifling through a reeking dumpster thick with grime over that, thank you. 

This time he had no luck. There was nothing but standard rubbish inside, not a single item that even remotely resembled a suitcase-like shape. John sighed, closed the lid and moved to the next container, hoping against hope that it would be the one.

He could feel Sherlock's burning eyes on him, but when he turned his head to look at the detective in the distance, the man was staring intently at a heap of trash under a fence. John's sixth sense had apparently played a trick on him. Without any delay, the doctor returned to the meticulous search. 

There was not a trace of an abandoned suitcase anywhere. Perhaps the killer hadn't behaved as Sherlock predicted? 

They changed locations, exploring more and more uninviting alleys. The detective sniffed around for clues while John was less metaphorically getting acquainted with the many horrible fragrances of London's waste. The doctor was pretty sure that his mucous membrane had been irreparably burnt through, for which he was actually thankful after being assaulted over and over with stomach-wrenching stenches. Only an hour later - an hour that was filled with an endless, wearisome string of ugliness and disappointment - they made some progress.

John did not harbour much faith when he performed the ritual again for the umpteenth time: sigh, lift the heavy cover, stand on his tiptoes while pressing his cuff to his face, take a gander inside the skip. This time, though, a surprise was waiting for him there. He almost could not believe his eyes.

“Sherlock! Here!” 

Sir Galahad surely wasn't prouder after finding the Holy Grail than John was right now as he picked up the garish pink case from under the black plastic sheet and held it up triumphantly. That was exactly what they were looking for. What were the odds of someone else disposing of a case in this particular colour and in precisely this area? The luggage label, a remnant from the flight from Cardiff, attached to the handle with the name of the victim allayed all potential doubts. 

Sherlock somehow materialised right beside him, as if he had teleported out of the thin air. He was grinning widely, his eyes glistening with excitement. 

“Yes! Brilliant!” The elated expression on his face made John's heart skip a beat. Sherlock looked more like a teenager on a sugar rush than a proper adult. It was adorable... and incredibly hot. John had to mentally slap himself not to let his thoughts get out of control.

Sherlock quickly grabbed the suitcase and began marching straight up ahead, dragging it beside himself casually. Once the prize had been secured in his hands, he seemed to lose interest in it. 

A little baffled as he caught up with the detective, John asked, “Don't you want to see what's inside?” 

“I do, obviously. But for that we need proper light and a guarantee that we won't be disturbed. We need to go somewhere safe.”

“Where are we going then?” John inquired, having trouble keeping up with the pace the detective imposed. One step of the detective's long legs equalled two made by John, which was rather unnerving. Sherlock seemed to be flying above the ground, fuelled by the surge of adrenaline only a breakthrough in an investigation could bring. His hair ruffled, a mirthful glint in his eyes, the detective appeared absolutely stunning to the doctor's gaze. Of course, John would rather bite off his tongue than say that aloud. 

“Home,” Sherlock replied without thinking. He quickly corrected himself. “Well, my home. I doubt there are many interesting things at your current place.”

John very nearly tripped over his own legs. They were going to Sherlock's house! Sherlock invited him home! Okay, calm down. It didn't really mean anything. It was just because of the suitcase, he needed an assistant. It would be best if you didn't read too much into it. You'd just get severely disappointed.

Seeing the odd expression on the doctor's face, Sherlock said haltingly, with uncharacteristic coyness, "If you want to come, that is."

_Hell yeah, I want to come_ , John though, but answered in a mockingly pensive voice full of hesitance. 

“Well, I don't know. I might miss my favourite talk show.”

Sherlock shot him a horrified look before he understood that John was just teasing him. The realisation warranted a similar playfulness. 

“I'll try to make myself scarce then. Don't want to interfere with your televising pattern.”

They exchanged delighted smirks and went together to get a cab that could bring them to Sherlock's lodgings. Their joint adventure wasn't over yet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.
> 
> This fic includes some original dialogue lines from A Study in Pink. [Ariane DeVere's transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html?thread=567570) were very helpful. Thanks for your hard work and making writers' lives easier!

For the second time that day John found himself in front of 221B Baker Street. The difference between the two occasions was quite significant, though. Instead of feeling awkward and unsure, the doctor was exhilarated to the point of bursting at the seams. If he hadn't valued his dignity so much he might have started jumping up and down while clapping his hands like an overexcited schoolgirl. He could hardly believe that he had really followed that magnificent man to the door of his apartment. It was, frankly speaking, bizarre – a tall, mysterious detective in a dark coat, dragging a garish pink suitcase they found in a dumpster with the most innocuous expression he could muster. John almost pinched himself to check whether he was asleep or not. In the end, he didn't do it. Even if that truly was a dream, he had no intention of waking up to sad reality.

Sherlock stood on the first step, slid his hand into his pocket and fumbled around it for a while with his impossibly long fingers. Something seemed to be amiss. He scrunched his nose and let out a prolonged huff of exasperation. Such a childish noise strangely suited him. John would even go so far as to describe it as adorable. He had never suspected that he'd ever use that word to comment on a grown-up man, but here he was. The day had undoubtedly been full of surprises.

“I must have left my keys on the table,” Sherlock mumbled on the verge of audibility, as if he was ashamed to admit in front of his companion to committing such a stupid mistake of forgetting something. That was way beyond his genius status. He continued in his more usual, show-offy way, trying to make up for that abysmal transgression. “Using lockpicks, which obviously is my forte, might be a bit excessive, so we have to knock. How tedious.” With a pout on his face, the detective reached for the knocker and rapped vigorously on the door a couple of times for good measure.

They didn't have to wait long before an elderly woman dressed in a purple dress and matching tights appeared in the doorway. Was she Sherlock's mother?

“Sherlock, it's the third time this week you forgot your keys, how—” she started chiding the detective in a truly motherly fashion, but she clammed up midsentence when she noticed another person standing right beside him. “Oh, you brought someone!” Her whole demeanour and tone of voice changed instantly. She gave John the brightest of smiles and stared at him in amazement, as if the visitor was at least the eighth wonder of the world or a fabled unicorn.

Unsurprisingly, John felt rather uneasy with this effusive display of amiability. “Um, hello,” he greeted her awkwardly.

“Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson,” Sherlock introduced them curtly, impatient to come inside and continue his investigation.

Not Sherlock's mother then. Figures; they looked nothing alike.

“Nice to meet you, dear. Come in, come in!” She ushered them to a bright hallway. As he stepped in, Sherlock mumbled “Finally” not caring whether she would hear it or not. Even if she did, she wisely ignored it.

The detective picked up the case with little effort and raced upstairs, jumping two steps at a time. John walked after him tentatively, still not quite believing that he was about to see the flat of the world's only consulting detective. What would it look like? In his mind’s eye he pictured white and almost sterile rooms, looking eerily similar to a mad scientist's laboratory filled with strange equipment, somewhere from the land between criminology and science-fiction. So preoccupied was he with this fantasy, that he practically tuned out Mrs Hudson's excited babble as they climbed up to Sherlock's flat.

And here they were. This wasn't what John had expected at all. It seemed so... snug. So ordinary. A nice living room, perhaps more clattered than most, but still pretty homely and inviting. A comfortable-looking couch, two completely unalike armchairs – one red, old, sturdy and worn-out, the other all puffy and with modern design – as well as heaps of books piled everywhere made the surroundings appear cosy. Even if the flat looked nothing like his own apartment, oddly enough John felt at home here.

His gaze travelled further around the living room only to rest on the mantelpiece, where he noticed a very familiar object. Familiar, even though he had never seen it before. Not this particular specimen, at least, because as a doctor he had been all too familiar with the shape and structure of its kind.

“That's the famous skull, yeah?” he said with a smile. It was the very object that brought them together. “I'm glad you got it back. It fits here, strangely,” he said, addressing the detective, who was crouching on the floor next to the suitcase they retrieved.

Sherlock was caught off guard. He lifted his head, blinking at John, as if he needed a moment to process what the man had said.

“Ah, yes,” he replied absent-mindedly, coming back to the issue at hand. John cursed himself inwardly for disturbing him with such trivialities when they had a murder to solve. That couldn't be put on a back burner. Conversations could wait.

They both had nearly forgotten about Mrs Hudson's presence. The woman reminded them about that quite effectively.

“So what do you think, then, Dr Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms...”

The great detective and his aspiring partner looked at her simultaneously, giving a perfectly synchronised deer-in-the-headlights impression.

“E-excuse me?” John stuttered, feeling his cheeks burning. If anything, the woman seemed amused in a rather fond, teasing way.

“Oh, don't worry. There's all sorts round here,” she said dismissively, and then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mrs Turner next door's got married ones.”

“Here? Married? What?” He couldn't be more confused about what was happening.

His reaction finally alerted the woman that something was not quite right.

“Aren't you Sherlock's new flatmate, darling?” she asked hopefully.

_Jesus..._

“Um, no. I'm his... assistant.”

“Oh dear.” She seemed so disappointed that John almost felt bad for not moving in right away and paying the rent for five years upfront. “And I thought that Sherlock finally met someone nice and wanted to settle down...”

That was as much as Sherlock could stomach.

“Mrs Hudson, why don't you go and bring us some tea and biscuits,” he muttered out testily, as if he was telling her to piss off. Which was precisely what he was doing. She didn't seem to get the hint.

“I think I've run out of biscuits...”

“I'm sure the shop on the corner is open.”

“Perhaps I can offer you a cake inst--”

“Goodbye, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yelled harshly, losing his patience. The woman gave a start of surprise, and quickly scurried away out of the flat, tutting to herself at Sherlock's lack of manners.

The detective's face showed nothing but relief mixed equally with uncharacteristic bashfulness. “Don't mind her. She's always prattling on without much sense.”

“Oh, it's fine...” John tried to laugh it off, but it sounded quite fake even in his own ears. He shifted uncomfortably. The tension in the room was almost palpable. The doctor hadn't felt so awkward since the mother of one of his high school girlfriends caught them making out. He cleared his throat and asked the first question that came to his mind, just wanting to break the heavy silence. “So what's the deal between you and Mrs Hudson? She's some relative of yours?”

Sherlock jumped eagerly on the opportunity to cover their embarrassment with a flurry of words. “No, she's the landlady here, who gave me a special deal on the rent. She owes me a favour, actually. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

That piece of news left John nonplussed. “Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh no. I ensured it.”

John wasn't certain if the man was joking or not. Probably not. Not with that complacent smile on his face. To his own surprise, John wasn't scandalised by Sherlock's reply. If anything, he wanted to laugh, as if he had just heard a punchline to a very dark joke. What the hell was wrong with the two of them?  

“Can we go back to the case at hand – literally – or do you have any more pointless questions?” the detective asked, but without any hostility in his voice. That was something, at least.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sure. Sorry.” After all, they had a task to do. That was important. And definitely better than dealing with their emotions.

They both concentrated on the pink case lying on the floor. The doctor came closer, leaning over it, as Sherlock opened the zip. Honestly, John wasn't sure what he expected to see – maybe the killer's portrait and his personal data written neatly on a sheet of paper – but there was nothing truly impressive inside. The contents were almost disappointingly average: some clothes in pastel colours, pink underwear, a book with a very kitschy paperback cover ( _Come to Bed Eyes_ \- a cheap romance of the worst sort, undoubtedly), a hairbrush, a package of sugar-free gum. Sherlock didn't seem to have any respect for the deceased. Without another moment of delay, he started rummaging methodically through Jennifer Wilson's personal effects. He seemed completely consumed by the search, ignoring everything else around him. John knew something about his methods already, so he simply stood by and provided moral support, since he couldn't do anything more than that. Without knowing what the detective was even looking for, there was no chance for him to acquit himself well. John felt pretty useless and superfluous.

It took a couple of minutes before Sherlock sat bolt upright, staring in the distance with unseeing eyes.

“It's not here...” he muttered to himself, puzzled.

“What's not here?”

Sherlock didn't deign to vouchsafe an explanation. Completely disregarding his guest, as if he hadn't heard him at all, the detective stood up and paced to the couch. On his way there, he took off his coat, threw it on the modern looking armchair, and then flopped down on the couch dramatically, steepling his fingers under his chin in a praying position and closing his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John asked haltingly after a while of watching him in confusion. The man didn't respond. He was either asleep or thinking deeply about the problem. Judging by the way his chest moved languidly with every breath, John wasn't entirely sure which option was the correct one. Not that he stared at the detective's chest for a long time. Just briefly. A fleeting glance, nothing more. “Well, since you're perfectly content here on your own, you won't mind me popping into the loo.” Silence. “Okay, fine. Don't tell me which door it is, I'll find it on my own.”

The doctor turned around, looking left, and then right. There were two ways out of the living room. One of them lead to the landing, the other to the kitchen. John decided on the latter. Unsurprisingly, the kitchen wasn't very well supplied in typical kitchen utensils, but had an abundance of odd- looking vials filled with lots of suspicious substances, a few samples of probably-blood sandwiched between two slides lying on the table right next to a microscope, and a couple of jars straight out of Dr Frankenstein's collection. John didn't even want to know what was inside the fridge or the freezer, so he passed them by as quickly as possible. He found himself in a small corridor with two locked doors: one to his left, the other right in front of him. The bathrooms were usually situated at the end of the hall, so that was where he decided to go first.

When he opened the door he instantly realised his mistake. This definitely wasn't a bathroom. Still, driven by his unquenchable curiosity and encouraged by Sherlock's current torpor, he decided to take one step inside against his better judgement and requirements of good manners.

Uh-oh. Throwing his caution to the wind was a big mistake.

As soon as his eyes rested on the bed and identified it as Sherlock's, he began deeply regretting his trespassing. He couldn't tear his gaze away. Standing there in place, as if paralysed, he tried to focus on other things. Yeah, out of the corner of his eye he could see the wardrobe, the lamp, the chair. Yes, yes, very pretty. None of them mattered, though, not really. Not when in the absolute centre of his attention was this big, alluring bed.

John's imagination ran wild. Sherlock's lithe, sweaty body writhing naked on the sheets. His luscious lips, parted in a moan, begging to be kissed. His legs bent and spread, his toes curling in pleasure as he lifted his hips and--

_Jesus Christ, what the fuck?_

His own thoughts freaked him out more than he could possibly say. This was getting ridiculous. And out of control. He wasn't even attracted to Sherlock, for God's sake! Well, maybe just a fraction. Purely aesthetically. It wasn't as if he wanted to kiss him. Or feel his chest pressed against his own. Or run his hand through the man's roguishly tousled curls. Or leave a throbbing love bite right under the hinge of his jaw.

_Ok, stop. Right now_

John took a step back and closed the door behind himself quickly, as if the handle burnt his hand. The other door. Yes, it must be bathroom, yes. Without a second of delay, he entered it and spent the next couple of minutes, perching on the rim of the bathtub and willing his arousal away. Only then was he able to relieve his bladder and wash his hands after all the trash digging from before, which was the main reason he had sought the restroom in the first place. Sprinkling some cold water on his face also helped quite a lot to regain some semblance of control over his mind and body. He was far too old to embarrass himself in this way. Thank God that Sherlock wasn't an actual mind reader or he'd have a field day. Still, John needed to efface his memory of all these highly inappropriate fantasies. If only for his own peace of mind.

John glanced briefly at his own reflection, but didn't spend too much time admiring the familiar sight. Instead, he curiously examined the shelves around the bathroom cabinet. They were full of high-end cosmetics, all very expensive brands. Sherlock clearly cared a lot about his appearance. Did he spend hours in front of the mirror, primping himself? Truth be told, John hadn't seen a man as well-groomed as Sherlock before. And that cologne of his... Exquisite. John didn't want to trust the stereotypes, but was it possible that Sherlock had some... interest in men? Which was fine, obviously. John was simply curious, nothing more than that. Perhaps he could ask him about that later... or not. That would be too forward. After all, the detective's sexual orientation wasn't his business.

Finally, John returned to the living room. Sherlock must have reached a satisfying conclusion to his pondering – or he had simply woken up – because he had altered his position on the couch slightly. His eyes were wide open and the sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up. Three nicotine patches were plastered to the underside of his arm, just below the elbow.

“Three? Honestly? Wanting to kick the habit is something to be admired, but don't overdo it. That's not healthy, you know,” John commented, not sure if the detective would even acknowledge his presence. Surprisingly, he did.

“Healthy is boring. And it's a three-patch problem.”

John had no idea what that even meant, so he stayed silent. Nothing happened for a moment and he started to think that it was his cue to leave, when unexpectedly the detective spoke again.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John was quite taken aback. He knew for a fact that the detective had his own. Why would he need to use his? The reply came right away.

“Yes. Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It's on the website.”

“Well, yeah. Sure,” John shrugged, and produced his phone from his pocket. He came closer to Sherlock, but the man didn't take it. The detective didn't even look his way.

“There's a number in my coat's pocket. I want you to send a text.”

John furrowed his eyebrows. That wasn't exactly the most exciting thing he could be doing, but he guessed that working as an assistant involved fulfilling quite a lot of mundane tasks. With a small sigh, he walked to the coat and ventured to slide his hand into its uncharted depths. There he found gloves, a magnifying glass, a pocketknife, and yes, a slip of paper taken from a luggage label.

“Jennifer Wilson... Hang on. When did you manage to snatch it? I've been with you all the time and never saw you doing that!” John exclaimed in confusion.

“Thievery is among my many talents. But that's not important. Just enter the number.”

John grumbled something under his breath, but started to type the number onto his phone.

“Are you doing it?” came the impatient question.

“Yes.”

“Have you _done_ it?”

“Yeah... hang on!”

“These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.”

John typed as quickly as he could, which objectively speaking wasn't very fast. He needed to ask Sherlock to repeat the address for him, which the detective did, albeit grudgingly.

“Okay, done,” John said, throwing the phone back into his pocket. Sherlock gave a curt nod. John paced to the red armchair and sank into it pleasantly. Actually, it was much more comfortable than the one he had at home. Perhaps he needed to ask Sherlock to lend it to him. “Will you tell me now what was missing from Jennifer Wilson's case?”

The detective turned his head towards John, giving him an incredulous look. “You honestly can't see it?”

“How could I?”

Sherlock lifted his gaze briefly heavenwards before granting John his answer.

“Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there. You just texted it.”

“Maybe she left it at home,” John mused aloud, to which Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

“She had a string of lovers and she was careful about it. She never left her phone at home.”

There was still something John didn't fully comprehend. Sherlock might call him thick, but he wanted to know everything. “Why did I send that text?”

The detective smirked smugly, as if he was waiting for this particular query. “Well, the question is: where is her phone _now_?”

“She could have lost it.”

“Yes, or...?”

John needed a moment to put all the puzzles into their place. But then came the enlightenment. “The murderer... You think the murderer has the phone!”

He was rewarded with a small, almost proud smile. That was a smile to fall in love with. Of course, if anyone was into that sort of thing. “Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

John swallowed hard. Suddenly everything became all too real. “Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will _that_ do?” There was a panicky tone in his voice, which he honestly hated.

Before Sherlock was able to respond, the silence was cut short by the ringing of John's phone. The doctor stared in horror at his companion before he reached into his pocket with uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, he took it out and peered at the screen. There was no ID of the caller displayed. Just: '(withheld) calling'.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer...” Sherlock paused for a greater dramatic effect and continued only when the ringing stopped. “... would panic.”

With no less flourish, Sherlock sat up and jumped to his feet vigorously, and reached for his coat. In a second he was ready to go out again.

“Shouldn't you talk to the police?” John said, slowly recovering from the shock. He didn't want to stare at the phone any longer, so he pocketed it quickly.

“Four people are dead. There's no time to talk to the police.”

Well, that was typical of Sherlock. John honestly hadn't expected a different answer.

“Well, are you coming?” the detective asked impatiently. “And don't try the excuse 'I have to be home early because I have a morning shift tomorrow' because I know that you have a day off.”

Did Sherlock manage to deduce that somehow or had he done more extensive research than he let on? John had no idea. Even without an excuse he should have gone home. Really, was texting murderers something that a respectable Dr John Watson should be doing in his spare time? Should he hang out with a drop dead gorgeous, half-mad genius detective? Probably not. He had his reputation at stake.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” John said with conviction and stood up, walking right to him like a soldier ready to go into battle.

_I don't give a fuck about my reputation when I'm around you._

Sherlock smiled playfully, but with discernible warmth. John's sentiment was written all across his features, and he was the only one who could read it. One swish of a coat and the detective was running downstairs at full tilt, his faithful assistant hard on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.
> 
> This fic includes some original dialogue lines from A Study in Pink. [Ariane DeVere's transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html?thread=567570) were very helpful. Thanks for your hard work and making writers' lives easier!

Sherlock left the building and walked out to the street with John in tow, only a couple of inches behind him. The doctor followed his companion like an obedient dog, without question or hesitation, even though he had to stretch his legs a lot to keep up with the detective's effortlessly long strides. A few seconds later, John realised that he had no idea what their destination point was. Even an obedient dog required some scraps of information from time to time.

“Where are we going?” he asked, admiring – not _admiring,_ merely glancing at – Sherlock's graceful profile.

The reply was instant. “Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here.”

So they were going to meet the murderer. Great. Well, John should have expected something like that, really. A part of him was slightly disappointed – not that he had expected a date with Sherlock, nothing like that! It simply would have been nice to go together to ehrm... a pub, yes a pub, for a pint. Like mates. That was what mates did, after all. And he and Sherlock were mates. Yes. But then, stalking a criminal had its own unique charm, John had to admit, much to his own surprise. What had his life become? Certainly, he couldn't even dream of being bored with this mad friend of his. Hopefully Sherlock shared that sentiment.

“You think he's stupid enough to go there?”

Sherlock smiled brightly, as if he was starting to enjoy the evening immensely simply because there was a killer to catch. Perhaps he had a serial killer kink, however that might look like. John didn't really want to imagine it. Some things were better left alone.

“No. I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?” John inquired, unabashedly intrigued.

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight!” he exclaimed with a flourish. Sherlock definitely had a flair for being dramatic. The stage lost a fine actor when the man decided to become a specialist in crime. He'd be a real heartthrob and his posters would surely hang in every teenage girl's bedroom. Hell, maybe John would get one too, just for laughs. “That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

John smirked in amusement, casting him a knowing look. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Sherlock either pointedly ignored that comment, or simply hadn't paid enough attention to hear it, busy twirling around as he spoke, gesturing to everything and nothing in particular.

“This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.” He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his hands to the side of his face. Looking at him, John was reminded of a fraudulent psychic who assumed his characteristic pose to get ready for the performance. “Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed whenever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

The man was probably mumbling to himself, but John decided to reply anyway, prompting Sherlock to elaborate, curious to hear what his deductions were. “Dunno. Who?”

“Haven't the faintest,” he admitted with a casual shrug. John furrowed his eyebrows in disapproval at such an anti-climatic resolution of the problem. This time even the great Sherlock Holmes seemed stumped. “Hungry?”

The question came so out of the blue that initially John was convinced that he must have imagined it. But Sherlock's gaze focused so intently on John's face that it left little in terms of doubts.

John's eyes lit up and a genuinely happy smile adorned his face. Perhaps in the end he'd get his date... ehrm... dinner. Well, in the absence of a pub and a cold pint, eating out together seemed like a tolerable idea. If they had nothing better to do, they might actually have a bite. Not that it meant anything. Just mates joined together for a meal. Yeah. Nothing more.

“Starving.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, but the slight tilt upwards of the corners of his mouth was a clear indication that he was pleased with John's decision. Somehow it made John's pulse quicken. Odd. Must be the expected thrill of a chase.

 

Sherlock lead them to a small restaurant nearby. John hadn't been here before, but the detective must have been a regular, judging by the effusiveness of the waiter, who greeted him at the door. The man gestured to the only free table in the establishment, right by the window, telling them to take their seats. John couldn't not notice the 'reserved' sign on the top, which surprised him a little.

“Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock said politely. It made John angry deep down. Who was that waiter to Sherlock that he addressed him by his name? How long had they known one another? Were they close? How close exactly? John knew that those thoughts were completely irrational and unbecoming, but he couldn't stop. It was a loathing at first sight, he and that Billy guy.

Thankfully, the waiter didn't interact with them further, but simply snatched the sign from the table and walked away. John and Sherlock took off their coats and jackets, hung them on the rack, and sat down. The doctor was lost in thoughts. Was this table permanently reserved for Sherlock? No, that was unlikely. Though who could be sure of anything connected to the mad detective? A more probable version of events was that Sherlock somehow reserved the table for the both of them earlier. John definitely liked that explanation. It was nice to feel worth the effort.

Sherlock sat strategically on the side of the table, and turned his head to the window, so that he could watch the spot in question and observe everything that happened outside of the restaurant. John, with his back to the street, had to content himself with staring at the interior of the restaurant. It was a nice, cosy place filled with pleasant smells of various spices and food. Quiet music in the background was unobtrusive, but it nicely muffled the conversations of other people, turning the voices into an indiscernible, soothing hum. If the meals were as good as the atmosphere, John might have found his new favourite eating spot.

No matter how much he tried to concentrate on other things, his eyes kept shifting towards his companion. Sherlock looked especially attractive in the slightly purplish hue of the neon lights outside, shining onto his pale skin. The urge to reach out and put his hand on the man's cheek to feel that ethereal smoothness was overwhelming. He might have had actually lost control and done it, if it weren't for Sherlock's sudden remark.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it,” he said, pointing with his chin to the building over the road.

In all honesty it didn't look any different than those around it. Houses in a similar, plain architectural style were littered all around the city. John concluded as much, taking a gander over his shoulder. “He isn't gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?” John voiced his doubts. “He'd need to be mad.”

“He has killed four people.”

Well, that was a fair point.

Who would have guessed that talking about the mental health of a serial killer with a drop dead gorgeous man would now be a part of John Watson's life? Not a perfectly ordinary citizen anymore. Not that he minded, really. Far from it.

They didn't have much time to make themselves comfortable before a tall, well-built, middle-aged man with long silver hair gathered in a ponytail came to their table. The bright smile on his face was a clear indication that he was extremely pleased to see the detective.

“Sherlock! It's so good to see you!”

Sherlock's reaction, though amiable, was much more restrained. Without standing up, he simply extended his arm towards the owner of the establishment, as John suspected, and they shook hands.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free,” the giant said in a friendly tone, handing them two menus. It was apparently one of those men, who at first looked rather scary, but in fact were just giant teddy bears. “On the house, for you and for your date.”

John's jaw went slack and his mouth opened minutely in an extremely dumb expression. _For your_ _date_? He was stupefied and embarrassed by the man's blunt assumption. But then there must be a reason why he instantly deemed John to be Sherlock's date and not his friend, colleague, associate or whatever. Had Sherlock come here with his previous partners? Perhaps even with men, since the owner didn't even bat an eyelid, seeing the male companion. Was he so tolerant or simply used to the sight? That realisation made John's head spin. He barely heard Sherlock's introduction of the man (“This is Angelo”) and the explanation of how he got him off a murder charge.

Only when Angelo turned to him with a knowing look, did John start to pay more attention. “I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic.” And he was gone.

John had no idea what to reply or what to even think about all this. Sherlock's face was ideally blank, so he couldn't really read any clues there about the man's thoughts on the subject. Was he okay with the assumption? Maybe he didn't care what Angelo thought? John was pretty sure, though, that his own ears had turned red.

“Pick something. We might have a long wait,” Sherlock remarked casually. He didn't seem interested in food in the least. Apparently only work counted to him at the moment, nothing more. John nodded wanly, opening the menu. He was hungry. Unlike _someone_ he couldn't thrive on excitement alone.

A moment later Angelo was back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tealight. He put it at the centre of the table, gave John a thumbs-up, as if wishing him good luck on their tryst, and then disappearedagain **.**

John was so embarrassed that he had to hide his face completely behind the menu to avoid Sherlock's stare and judgement. The detective, though, was focused solely on the building they were supposed to watch, purposefully disinterested in John. Maybe he was slightly embarrassed himself by Angelo's blunder. It was hard to tell with the impenetrable expression on his face.

When the waiter – not Billy, another one, good – came a minute later, John ordered some noodles for himself. Sherlock didn't want anything, not even something to drink. It made John think how resilient his body must be. He hadn't seen him eat for a whole day. No wonder he looked like skin and bones. Attractive skin and bones nevertheless

Neither of them spoke, and since John was famished, he began stuffing his face as soon as his meal arrived. Despite his robust appetite, he tried to maintain at least a little dignity, not wanting to appear something akin to a disgusting pig to Sherlock. The detective’s high opinion of him mattered.

Once his first hunger had been satiated, John decided that he had had enough of the silence between them, interrupted only by the clinks of the fork against the plate, and the drumming of Sherlock's impossibly long fingers on the table. Above all, John wanted to know if he had any chance. To be Sherlock's close friend, obviously. Nothing more. Angelo's assumption that they were on a date was preposterous. Sherlock was so amazing that he surely had someone already... a best friend, that is. Maybe he didn't need... another? Maybe the position of a best friend was already occupied by some nice girl or boy? People were probably queuing to date this gorgeous man. Not that John wanted to date him, obviously.

When John's thoughts passed the threshold of not making sense, leaving the land of denial behind them, his mouth opened. The words flew out seemingly without his control. “So... do you have someone?”

The sudden question pulled Sherlock out of his reverie. He focused his piercing gaze at John, not really understanding. “Sorry?”

“Do you have someone. A girlfriend?” John repeated diffidently, not even realising he was holding his breath.

The detective turned his head to the window once again, speaking dispassionately. The topic clearly didn't pique his interest. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

John needed a moment to process that reply. When he finally did, he nearly gasped in delight. _Oh_. Were his predictions correct? Did it mean what he hoped it mean? Well, _hoped_ wasn't the right word here. His elation had nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock had no interest in females whatsoever, of course not.

“Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?” Sherlock whipped his head towards him sharply and gave him an odd look, under which John felt the need to add, “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it's fine.”

John wasn't sure why Sherlock got all defensive. Maybe he thought that John would mock him or confront him about his sexual orientation? John wasn't gay himself, but there was nothing wrong in being so. He smiled to convey just that. Everything was fine.

“So you've got a boyfriend, then?”

“No.”

That answer filled John with inexplicable joy. “Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me.” There was surely the silliest smile on his face, but he couldn't do anything about it. “Fine. Good.”

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off him. The wheels in his head were turning frantically, that much was clear. John felt a little uneasy under his scrutiny, but he hadn't budged or averted his gaze. He'd give anything just to take a glimpse at the detective's thought process. What was he thinking about? Was he... interested in John in any way? No, that was stupid. Just because someone was gay didn't mean that he'd be interested in any male in the vicinity. Still, John kept quiet, giving Sherlock all the time he needed for whatever he needed.

Finally, the detective spoke haltingly, as if not sure how John would react to his question. “John... How long has it been since you’ve been on a proper date?”

Honestly, John was baffled. He hadn't expected a question like that. It took him a while to get over his surprise and reply.

“Well, it's been a while. Why?”

“We can take up Angelo's suggestion and call this a date, if you don't mind.”

John could swear there was a hint of shyness in Sherlock's voice, even if his expression didn't give anything away. John could barely focus on that, though, feeling completely floored by the implications of the detective's proposition. To his own surprise, he concluded that there was nothing he'd want more.

“Do _you_ mind calling it a date?” he asked quietly, his mouth suddenly drier than a middle of a desert.

“I asked you first,” insisted Sherlock.

“I asked you second.”

And then, as if on cue, they both couldn't stop themselves any longer. They exchanged playful glances and burst out laughing in stereo – John guffawing, Sherlock giving a more dignified low chuckle. Honestly, John felt beyond ridiculous, but he didn't care much. The turn of events was rather unexpected, but not unwelcome. He wanted to say that a date seemed like a fantastic idea, but Sherlock beat him to speaking. And not really with something John wished to hear right now.

“Look across the street. Taxi.”

John blinked in surprise. He’d almost forgotten that they were here to catch the killer, who apparently had really bad timing. Turning towards the window, he noticed the characteristic black cab parked at the side of the road. There was an outline of someone inside, sitting in the back.

“Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out **,** ” Sherlock muttered to himself, observing the car. The relaxed mood from a short time ago was gone completely. The detective was all business. The passenger of the cab, a white male, was looking through the side window, as if trying to spot someone particular. “Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?”

“That's him?” John asked, feeling the surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Could it be the murderer?

“Don't stare,” Sherlock chided him half-heartedly, to which John pointed out the obvious.

“You're staring.”

“We can't _both_ stare.”

Well, he had a point.

Without a note of warning, Sherlock jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat and scarf, and rushed to the door. John really had no other choice, but to follow. He couldn't abandon Sherlock now, could he?

Outside, Sherlock put the coat on carelessly, his eyes transfixed on the cab and the strange passenger inside. The man kept looking around – waiting for Jennifer Wilson to show up? – until his gaze met Sherlock's. John had a really bad feeling about this. The man turned his head again towards the front of the car. He must have said something to the driver because the cab started to drive off.

Sherlock, being as impulsive as he was reckless, ran straight ahead across the street... and almost got ran over by a car, which stopped at the last moment with screeching of tyres. The detective didn't seem bothered in the least, even using the bonnet as a slide to get to the other side more quicker. John, on the other hand, nearly had a heart attack when the car ground to a halt. His imagination readily supplied the picture of Sherlock lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. His face turned white as a sheet. _God._ That would have been a terrible ending to their blooming relationship.

Not wanting to think more about it, John simply muttered an apology to the annoyed driver, who was honking his horn at them angrily, and followed after the detective, vowing to himself to do anything in his power to keep the detective relatively safe.

Sherlock ran a few yards after the cab, but then realised the futility of that endeavour. The killer had escaped them. John stood right next to his companion and said, wanting to be useful again, “I've got the cab number.”

Sherlock this time, though, wasn't really impressed with John's astuteness. “Good for you,” he muttered, pressing his hands to both sides of his head. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply. John had no idea what he was doing, but judging by the words he uttered under his breath, “Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,” he must be working out some kind of route. Perhaps the one the cab would take. Maybe they could hail another one and follow it and...

Sherlock had a different, less conventional and more rough-and-ready idea how to proceed. He charged headlong at the man opening the door to a building on the right, shoved him unceremoniously aside, and in one bound jumped inside. John, dashing grudgingly after him, apologised to the poor manhandled citizen, before catching up with his crazed companion.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of adrenaline-fuelled nightmare to John. He had to climb stairs, jump between rooftops, sprint along a busy road, climb over fences, cross shady semi-darkened alleyways, and all of that while not letting his eyes wander off of the back of Sherlock's head. The git had it easy with his long legs and agile body. Bastard. And yet it only took a vague encouragement, “Come on, John!” to make him try harder and run faster. He ran after him without question, just like on the first day they met, ignoring the aching muscles, burning lungs, and the heart beating so fast, as if wanting to explode. His fascination with the beautiful stranger and the promise of doing something dangerous were enough of a reason to soldier on despite fatigue.

The chase at least wasn't in vain. They both ran out of the corner of an adjacent street just as the cab approached it. In yet another display of his lack of self-preservation Sherlock hurled himself in front of the car. It stopped with a blood-curdling screech. From the depths of his coat the detective somehow produced a police badge, flashed it at the driver before he ran to the side door at the back.

“Police!” he demanded, so out of breath that he was barely making any sense. He opened the door briskly, and looked with keen suspicions at the passenger inside. When John joined him a couple of seconds later, the detective must have already made up his mind. And wasn't overly pleased by the things he discovered.

“No,” he sighed with exasperation. “Teeth, tan. What – Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.”

Now that was something John couldn't comprehend. The guy didn't have his postcode tattooed on his forehead.

“How can you possibly know that?” he asked, staring at the sour grimace on Sherlock's face.

“The luggage.” He pointed casually to the suitcase on the floor still bearing the label from the airport. Well, that was a very straightforward clue. He lifted his gaze and addressed the nonplussed man once again. “It's probably your first trip to London, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?”

“Sorry, are you guys the police?” the American asked in such a confused manner that John almost felt sorry for him.

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied, flashing him the badge awkwardly. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah.”

John couldn't decide who seemed more awkward – the passenger or the detective.

After a moment of wondering, clearly unsure what to do, Sherlock gave the man the fakest smile either of them had ever seen. “Welcome to London.”

With a sulking swish of his coat, Sherlock walked away, leaving John behind. The doctor was on his own. Well, he could play his part till the end.

“Er, any problems, just let us know.”

When the man nodded, John slammed the door shut, feeling oddly giddy. It was ridiculous. Absolutely bonkers. Nothing was ever boring and mundane with Sherlock. Oh, how much John loved this insanity. He walked a few yards to the detective, who stopped on the pavement, miffed that he was wrong. Since he didn't feel like talking, it was John who broke the silence.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down.”

“Basically,” he replied in a desultory fashion.

“Not the murderer.”

“ _Not_ the murderer, no.”

“Wrong country, good alibi.”

“As they go.”

It seemed that John wouldn't be able to get much from Sherlock. The whole fiasco must have disappointed him too much. He played absent-mindedly with the police badge, transferring it from one hand to the other. Only then did John realise that there was no way Sherlock could have obtained such a thing legally.

“Hey, where-where did you get this?” John took the I.D. card and examined it closer. It looked genuine. And the name seemed familiar. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Sherlock didn't seem fazed in the least. “Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat.”

That was enough to make John snort with laughter. Here he was – a grown-arse man giggling like a schoolgirl in the middle of a street after a running frenzy around London and destroying someone's holiday.

“What?” Sherlock asked, puzzled by the other's behaviour.

“Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London'.”

Sherlock responded with a chuckle. John decided that he needed to make him laugh more. He loved that sound.

The cab still didn't move. The passenger had stepped outside and was currently engaged in a conversation with a genuine police officer, while pointing in the direction of two laughing goofs, namely no one else but them. This was probably a good time to get the hell away from there.

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked, unable to hide his mirth.

“Ready when you are.”

And off they went again, the two mad men, defying all common sense. As John ran next to the detective, he thought that he could get addicted to this kind of lifestyle. Perhaps he already had.

 


End file.
